


Asaaranda

by vermouthhh



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-08 07:03:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4295199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vermouthhh/pseuds/vermouthhh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Tal-Vashoth mercenary finds herself in the middle of a holy war by chance. Raised to be brutal and bloodthirsty, it is no surprise she has difficulty adjusting to her new calling as the Herald of Andraste. A retelling of Dragon Age: Inquisition, mostly from the Iron Bull’s perspective, focused on a slow burn romance between the two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

She is nine years old and she is lawless.

A child with a savage, bloody beat in her heart.

Kaariss paints white lines down her cheeks. She is wild. She is feral. Bare arms twist and sweat in the sun. Legs quiver with muscle. Bloody scrapes drip all the way to her ankles.

“Zaahra,” he chastises.

A snarl.

She is impatient. Her blood boils and she rocks back on her heels as he finishes the last of the vitaar. As soon as his hands come away, she lurches forward and snatches the jewel studded blades from the table. She straps them to her thighs and pants with need.

“I can hear them,” she licks her lips. A scream outside the tent makes her body come alive.

The Tal-Vashoth do not train their children.

The general consensus among them is simple. If you are born into blood, you will thrive off of blood without instruction.

The Valo-kas band is no different. No one ever taught her how to weild a blade. No one taught her to drive it deep and hard in the spaces between bone, nor did they teach her to lick the blood clean from her fingers afterwards. Brutality is expected. Encouraged. And reinforcement breeds terrible creatures.

When Kaariss lets her go, she sprints for the battle. Her bare feet sear the hot, red sands. Blood sprays her in greeting like a warm kiss of rain. She cloaks herself and weaves in between frantic legs. Metal clashes over her head. Her blades turn over once in her blistered palms. Then she dives for the first white neck she sees. The dagger goes deep. Blood rushes up to meet her. Flecks the white vitaar with scarlet jewels. She laughs, cloaks again, and paints the battlefield.

By the time they’re done, she’s ten coins richer and her long white braid is stained red all the way down her back.

Someone plants a hand atop her head and jostles her horns.

“You fight like the asaaranda, little one.”

But she knows better.

She is the thunder. And she is the storm.

\- - - - - 

She is sixteen and she is lost.

She can paint on the vitaar herself. Long, broad strokes. One down the center of her sternum, white, peeling poison turning her skin to steel. Her lips tremble on the edge of questions she knows she should not ask. Pale eyes watch the others, searching for any of the same trepidation in their expressions.

This feels wrong, she tells herself as she straps her daggers to her thighs.

Blood begets blood.

Money is money.

Shokrakar’s voice echoes in her head.

You’re Vashoth. You don’t get to be picky.

But when they sack the manse and kill the servants, a seed of doubt grows roots in her belly. They let her go on her own to check for survivors. Throat-cutter. Her blades feel white hot in her hands. Her horns make sharp shadows on the carpet. She hears a scuffle in the next room over and cloaks herself in darkness.

When she gets closer, a muffled sob spills out from a wardrobe. Without ceremony, she rips the doors open and readies her blades. But when the shadows flee, a little boy is left writhing in their wake. He is curled in the corner of the wardrobe with his knees drawn up, red cheeks puffing with breath. He wails at the sight of her. And she doesn’t blame him.

In these parts, they tell children stories of the dreaded Tal-Vashoth. This one is still young enough to be tucked into bed with such tales, and here she stands, his nightmare incarnate. His parents’ blood is still dripping from her daggers. He screams until his face turns just as red.

She should make it quick. And it is a weakness within her that she does not, can not. Zaahra leans forward and collects him into her arms. He is young enough to scramble against her and tuck his chin over her shoulder. She breathes in his scent. Fear and silk, luxury steep enough that someone else has paid them to kill for it. As soon as the child calms, she sets him back in the wardrobe. Presses a finger to her lips.

He nods and blinks wide, wet eyes at her.

Zaahra closes him in. Someone from the city guard will find him eventually. Then she stands and makes her way back into the main foyer.

“Anything?” Sata-Kas asks when she enters.

Zaahra shakes her head.

“Nothing.”

\- - - - - 

Standing among the rest of the Valo-kas, she is fear and threat rolled into one towering, ruthless body. The vitaar is hot and bright against the dark of her skin. Her arms are taut with muscle. They quiver with anticipation as she watches the throes of people push like an angry tide within the Conclave.

Most of her company complained about the assignment. They don’t involve themselves in politicking if they can help it as a general rule. But Shokrakar insists the money is too good to pass up. 

Zaahra thinks she just likes to look intimidating in a room full of people who only whisper the word qunari when they’re trying to frighten one another.

Everyone here knows what the Arishok did to Kirkwall. It doesn’t matter that the Qun and the inhabitants of the badlands are completely different beasts. She has been called oxman and brute thrice over already. Perhaps Shokrakar enjoys being belittled and sticking her nose into places it doesn’t belong, but Zaahra has been ready to leave since they stepped foot in the Conclave.

Her bow remains steady at her side. She stares hard at the sea of robes and soft hands.

“What do you think, Adaar?”

Zaahra sniffs, “I think I want to get paid.”

“Wonder if it’s as good as Shokrakar says.”

There is a haze of memory. A series of white hot images. Open, screaming mouths. Green fire. A drip of ice right down to her bones. She remembers nothing but the feel of her bow at the end of her fingertips and the sea of murmuring, somber faces.

Then, she falls to her knees in the rubble. The sky above boils emerald and blood rushes up to hit the backs of her teeth. She plants a hand in the dirt to catch her fall. Her elbow buckles, and her chin cracks against a rock. She smells fire and stone as her eyes wrench shut.

What do you think, Adaar?

You’re Vashoth.

Asaaranda.

Nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

The first time he sees her, he almost misses her.

He figured they’d run into trouble on the beach. The surprise attack isn’t much of a surprise, after all, and the Chargers are well prepared. You don’t lay out in the open for a few nights looking as heavily armed as the Chargers do without attracting some attention. And the Storm Coast is full of sellswords looking to make their pockets a few coins heavier. 

Vints are on the menu today. Lucky him.

When the fighting starts, he’s actually pleased. Beats sitting around on their asses waiting for the Herald of Andraste to grace them with her presence. He can’t have his men getting soft, after all. And idle hands make him antsy. He operates well under rule and order. He understands how to drive his axe through someones skull. Combat is comfortable. 

He is less comfortable, however, sitting with his own thoughts.

He swings his broadaxe around with a roar. The blunt edge hits with enough force to dent steel armor and drive hard into the ribs underneath. The satisfying reverberation of a man turning to kindling travels all the way up his arms. When the body falls, the Iron Bull looks up and sees her.

It’s only for a second. And if he’d looked up a beat later, she would have been gone. Because as soon as he collects the image of dark skin, metal clad horns, white vitaar and a long white braid, it is gone. A flask breaks upon the rocks and she disappears from view. He spins around and searches the discord for any sign of her. He can usually smell Tal-Vashoth a mile away. But she’s nothing. Wind on the battlefield. Completely untouchable.

His fist strikes out and meets an eager face trying to get the jump on him while he’s turned around. As soon as that guy falls, another behind him manages to knick Bull’s forearm with his blade. An irritated growl escapes Bull’s lips as he turns from his search and slams his axe into the man’s chest. His body hits the ground with a satisfying crack. As he pulls the axe from the cavern of the man’s crushed armor, Bull catches a flicker out of the corner of his eye.

He zeroes in on the movement. She appears out of thin air, twin daggers raised and teeth bared. His heart beats once in the time it takes her to drive her blades into the back of a sellsword moving in on Krem. As soon as the body withers beneath her she pulls a thinner blade from her coat and throws it left where it punctures a man’s jugular. Blood spurts from his throat. When Bull looks back, he finds her eyes on him. l

Another flask breaks. And she’s gone.

He’s never seen anyone move like that. Skinner’s combat style is as close as comparisons go. She has the same brutality, but even she lacks that kind of fluidity. The Herald moves through the battlefield like smoke. It’s surprising, especially for a Tal-Vashoth. Most of the ones he’s tussled with, especially the ones in Seheron, are too impatient to hone something as disciplined as subterfuge. They’d rather lose an arm rushing the field than exercise any finesse.

Another blade bites into his shoulder. He winces as blood drips down his back. Krem’s incredulous voice calls him back to action.

“Chief!”

Bull waves him off, grumbling, “Yeah, yeah, I got it.”

He plants a hand over the helmet of the sellsword and lifts him off the ground like a doll. One swing is all it takes to crush his skull back against the wet rocks of the beach. When it’s finished, Bull hefts his axe back into his main hand and vows to finish the job without sustaining further injury. Just embarrassing at this point. And Krem will never let him hear the end of it.

Another minute, and it’s over. Bodies cool on the ground. The shore froths pink as the waves come to claim the spilt blood. The Iron Bull passes his axe off and wipes his hands on his pants.

“Chargers! Stand down!”

Krem stands off to the side with his hands clasped behind his back. Bull grins and heads over the rocks to him. He’ll deal with the Herald in a second. First priority is to make sure his boys are okay.

“Krem! How’d we do?” he bellows.

“Five or six wounded, Chief. No dead.”

Krem gives him a funny look, which he promptly ignores, “That’s what I like to hear! Let the throatcutters finish up, then break out the casks.”

His second in command nods, but doesn’t quite wipe the curious look off his mug. He knows better to ask right now, however. Because as soon as he moves away, the Herald herself strides up to meet him. 

This is the first time he’s gotten a good look at her. Thick, muscled, eyes pale red and face strewn with piercings. A gold hoop in her nose, a chain from her brow to her ear, studs in her cheeks. Her hair is pleated in one long, white braid down her back.

What he notices most of all, however, is how young she is. If her face didn’t give it away, the lack of scars would. She makes a good show with the vitaar, the piercings and the hard expression but he’s good enough at reading the microcosms of faces to know it’s an act. Probably out of necessity. No one takes a kid seriously in the Tal-Vashoth unless they prove themselves early on, and keep proving themselves.

He starts to laugh despite himself. “Damn, it’s true! Oh, the Chantry must love you.”

She blinks, seemingly unsure what to make of him.

He grins and shakes his head. Of all the shit he’s seen over his years, this definitely takes the fucking cake.

“A qunari mercenary is the Herald of Andraste!” he wipes his mouth, “Who’d’a thought?”

She narrows her eyes, “I’m only surprised they haven’t brought out the pitchforks.”

He laughs, though her tone is humorless. He sticks out a hand and she takes it. Her palm is rough and weathered against his, though smooth in comparison. His hand is more callous than skin these days.

“The Iron Bull,” he introduces himself.

“Zaahra Adaar.”

He considers for a moment and they release on another.

“Mmm, very nice. Adaar. A good weapon,” he gestures his head back upwards of the shore and starts to walk, “Come on, have a seat, drinks are coming.”

She follows him without speaking. The rest of her party waits by the water. A dwarf, an elf and someone he recognizes from Krem’s reports as Seeker Pentaghast. Strange fucking company, but it’s not like he’s one to talk. He ascends the hill and comes to sit on a slightly less damp rock. Bull braces his hands on his knees as Zaahra comes to stand before him.

She doesn’t sit. Uneasy, perhaps. Or too Tal-Vashoth to trust even a quiet battlefield. It gives him a good angle to observe her, at least. Nice legs. Great tits. But lined with the kind of savage muscle that tells a lawless history. She is unequivocally Vashoth from the piercings in her face to the hard muscle in her arms and the thick strength of her thighs. He doesn’t trust a body like that. One unhinged, full of raw power.

Krem appears from her side and interrupts his intake.

“I assume you remember Cremisius Aclassi, my lieutenant.”

“Good to see you again,” Krem nods and then turns his attention back to Bull, “Throatcutters are done, Chief.”

“Already?” he asks, brow furrowing, “Have them check again, I don’t want any of those Tevinter bastards getting away.”

Krem smirks knowingly. Bull grins after him.

“No offense.”

“None taken,” Krem shrugs, “Least a bastard knows who his mother was. Puts him one up on you qunari, right?”

Zaahra looks after him, The gold metal in her face gleams in the hazy sunlight that breaks its way through the fog of the Storm Coast. She probably knows her parents, he thinks. Or knew them. Now’s not really the time to ask, however. Once she turns back to him he folds his hands and starts to make his pitch.

“So, you’ve seen us fight. We’re expensive, but we’re worth it. And I’m sure the Inquisition can afford us.”

She looks around the battlefield. He wonders vaguely if she saw the hits he took or not. Hard to imagine she sees anything on the battlefield that isn’t a target, moving as fast as she does. Hopefully it doesn’t color her opinion of them. He’s under orders to join the Inquisition, and the Ben-Hassrath don’t usually take no for an answer.

But as soon as he has his doubts, she turns her pale eyes back on him and nods, “The Chargers seem like an excellent company.”

Ah, good. She’s smart.

“They are, but you’re not just getting the boys. You’re getting me,” he stands and doesn’t miss the way her eyes size him up from his feet to the crown of his head. He lets her look. “You need a frontline bodyguard. I’m your man.”

Now comes the part he’s not exactly thrilled to admit. He’s not dumb enough to think he can hide being Ben-Hassrath from something called the Inquisition, but the Herald being Tal-Vashoth makes this a little trickier. He passes her and then turns, one eye regarding her carefully.

“There’s one other thing, might be useful, might piss you off,” he starts.

She raises an eyebrow. Now that they’re this close, he can see the tiny flecks of blood along the front of her armor. One drip cooling at the hollow of her throat.

“I assume you’ve heard of the Ben-Hassrath.”

She bristles. He sees the slight flare of her nostrils as she takes in a sharp breath.

He response is short, low. “Yes.”

“They’re concerned about about the Breach. Magic out of control like that could cause trouble everywhere. I’ve been ordered to join the Inquisition. Get close to the people in charge, and send reports on what’s happening. But I also get reports from Ben-Hassrath agents all over Orlais. Sign me on, I’ll share them with your people.”

She doesn’t speak for a moment. He senses her fingers twitching. Itching for a blade, perhaps. Something to reclaim her power in the upset balance. Something to reclaim control. He waits patiently. This is not a situation he can push and get away with. Her eyes flicker across his face and he feels for a moment as if he’s been burned. 

She is a very real reminder of the madness he keeps locked away. The kind that scratches claws against his skull head, begging to come in.

“Are you and I going to have a problem?” she asks after a long silence.

He wonders what she would think if she knew he was more afraid of her than she was of him?

He narrows his expression, “So long as you’re not a bandit who kills innocent people for sport, no.”

Her eyes falter. That kind of look is impossible for even someone like him to read. Perhaps she’s warring with herself on the certainty of the statement. Or lost in the kind of memories he’s seen other Tal-Vashoth happily bathe in. He clears his throat and she seems to return to herself. Eyes like cream rimmed with rubies cross over his face.

“You’re hired.”

“Excellent.”

He walks past her, feels her eyes slide across him as he passes her. Her body comes alive as their shoulders come within inches of touching. Every nerve in her is ready to fight, to bleed, to destroy. She does not trust him. And he does not trust her. But now at least he’ll be able to keep an eye on her.

“Krem! Tell the men to finish drinking on the road. The Chargers just got hired!”

Krem whips his head back, “What about the casks, Chief? We just opened them up. With axes.”

Bull strides forward, leaving a pair of hard, red eyes on his back.

“Find some way to seal them. You’re Tevinter, right?”

He passes his lieutenant, who is staring at the Herald with a mix of suspicion and question behind him. Bull hardens his face and continues forward.

“Try blood magic.”


	3. Chapter 3

Two weeks crawl by. And not that he’s looking for more demons to drop out of the sky or anything, but he could stand to see a little more action. If for nothing else but to spice up the monotony of his reports.

'Got attacked by three bears today. THREE.   
I swear the Seeker attracts them.   
Breach is still big and scary.   
Nothing else of note.'

The Chargers are getting bored too. But far from soft. He’s been riding their asses to prepare them for what’s to come. Which is kind of fucking impossible, seeing as how there’s no way of knowing. There’s a hole in the sky, demons around every corner and a slow kind of unease settling in his bones.

He has them practice drills ceaselessly. He grills them until Krem’s dripping sweat in the cold mountain air and even Rocky’s too tired at the end of the day to run his mouth. They do their fair share of griping and complaining, but they know as well as he does that shit’s going to get worse before it gets better.

The when is the only question. This whole calm before the storm shit is really getting on his nerves.

True to form, he hits a little harder when they stumble upon a rift in the Hinterlands.

They’ve spent the first couple of weeks here running errands for the refugees -finding blankets, food, and medicine- and making connections. Tedious, but important. And something he wouldn’t have thought Zaahra was capable of. He’s fought a lot of Tal-Vashoth in his time, and none of them have ever given a damn about anyone but themselves.

He still doesn’t trust her, however. And he’s always reminded of it in battle.

The demons pouring out of the rift are paper to her blades. She is in and out of shadows that don’t exist, appearing on his left, on his right, dropping two wraiths before he’s even hefted his axe out of a terror’s body.

She darts in front of him just as he’s bringing the axe around for another swing. Her body ducks under the force of him before all that’s left of her is the tail end of her braid and then she’s gone once more. He stops still, gaze focused on the fray.

“Might as well give up on keeping track of her,” Varric helpfully suggests from behind him. He rocks back with the recoil of his crossbow and a wraith three feet to Bull’s left disintegrates with a howl.

Bull doesn’t have time to respond. His axe embeds in another body and he roars with the force of it. It’s not keeping track of her that worries him. It’s the brutality that she wields that really makes him uneasy. Sure, he can crack a skull with one swing and likes to wet the earth with blood just as much as the next guy. But there’s a difference between aggression and savagery. Zaahra is a predator. 

Merciless. Cold. Quiet.

“Seal it, now!” Cassandra’s voice breaks through the disjointed harmonies of the battle. She slams her shield back against a falling body. The corpse crashes into the grass and dissolves into the tendrils.

The Iron Bull stops and turns towards the rift. He’s heard about Zaahra closing them before, but he’s never actually been with her to see it. She materializes to his left. The only indication she’s even been in a fight at all is the quickness of her breath, mouth slightly parted and chest rising and falling in a staccato rhythm. He catches himself wondering what else might cause her to lose her breath like that, and then cuts the line of thought completely.

She lifts a hand to the rift. The inside of her palm crackles green and bright. It’s kind of pretty. Dazzling, hypnotizing -downright terrifying if he thinks about the implications of it for long enough. A crack of what sounds like it could be thunder splits the air before him and a line extends from her palm to the scar of light above their heads.

He finds his gaze trailing back down the thread that connects the two, to Zaahra herself. Face lit up with emerald light, eyes focused, mouth pressed tight with concentration.

It’s the first time he’s seen her as something magnificent, in place of savage.

The rift cracks in the center and then closes completely. The blue sky swallows it back up and everything goes quiet. 

Zaahra staggers back and grips at her forearm as the green light crackles and dies in her palm. Her brow knits. In pain, he notes. 

“Boss?” he asks, “You okay?”

“Fine,” she says.

Solas leans against his staff and nods “Well done.”

“We should keep moving,” Cassandra sheathes her sword at her hip, “We still have much ground to cover.”

If Zaahra needs a moment to collect herself, she doesn’t show it. She replaces her daggers along her shoulders and resumes the pace they’d set before they’d encountered the rift. Bull falls into step with her naturally.

“That’s a pretty good party trick,” he starts, sliding his gaze over at her, “Does it hurt?”

She cuts him a long glance, but doesn’t slow down. He notices the silver sheen of sweat across her temple.

“Are you asking because you genuinely want to know? Or you think it’ll be something good to put in your report?”

“Maybe I’m just trying to make conversation.”

“With a Tal-Vashoth?” she mocks him.

His smile is creased and annoyed, “Well, you haven’t killed any innocent people or looted any caravans since I’ve been with you, so I think we’re good.”

Zaahra looks straight ahead. The slope of her nose is regal and smooth, and the divot of her septum leads down to the fullness of her lips. The sunlight paints them like light upon steel. She takes a full breath.

“We’re not so different, you and I.”

Rage spurts in his chest. The emotion is beneath him, for someone who prides himself on being in control of his mind at all times. But the sentiment strikes a nerve in him.

How can she think they have anything in common, when he’s lived his whole life trying to prove that they’re not? Perhaps it causes such a reaction in him because she says it so freely, as if he should want to be more like her, as if he should give into that kind of sprawling madness. He snarls out a noise and then through gritted teeth spits “There’s a world of difference between Tal-Vashoth and Qunari.”

She turns her head to him as they walk. Her boots swish through the grass delicately, but her body is sharp and hard all of a sudden.

“And what’s so wrong with being Tal-Vashoth?”

He knows he’s touching a raw nerve in both of them, but he can’t help but digging his fingers in all the same.

“Back home, the Ben-Hassrath help people live by the Qun. Tal-Vashoth turned their back on all that, decided they’d rather live like savages,” he clenches his fists at his side, “The Qun isn’t perfect, but at least there’s some sense to it.”

That prompts a laugh out of her. The sound is harsh and scathing. A lesser man might have flinched away form it but Bull grits his teeth and levels with her. Squares his shoulders a little as if to say, bring it on.

“Of course, because there’s so much sense in being brainwashed. So much sense in living your entire existence the way the Qun dictates and never knowing anything outside of it.” They walk side by side, but her entire body is combative. Each step a knife. The sway of her braid between her shoulders like a whip. He can feel her fury radiating off her body and smell her blood quickening in her veins.

She bares her teeth, “My people may be savage, but at least we’re not mindless.”

He tries to not let his own body feed off her, but can’t help the edge to his voice when he hurls back, “Right, you’re all mindful thugs and bandits who kill innocent people for sport.”

She doesn’t deny it. Merely snarls and sends him a withering look. It would be better if she tried to convince him otherwise. He’d held out a hope that she was of the milder sort of Vashoth -the ones whose parents defected and were merely born into a life stigmatized by savagery. But he should have known after seeing her fight. You don’t cut through enemies like that if you grow up peaceful and wholesome.

“You think you’re so much better? With your re-educators, your spies?” A vein at her throat beats angrily and he wonders what it might be like to skirt his tongue over it. Taste her salt, her fury.

At this point, he’s not sure if they’re getting ready to fight or fuck.

Maybe both.

She stops short and turns to him, “We’ve both killed innocent people. The difference is, you mask your guilt with duty, and I choose to face mine.”

He stops too. Stares down the slope of his nose at her, watching gold light up her face as the sun passes from behind a cloud. He wants to tear her in half. Remove her, remove the temptation of madness entirely. He wants to make her smoke instead of the very real entity that he’s spent his entire life avoiding. 

The Iron Bull wants to break her down, limb by limb, bone by bone, and ruin her. Then rebuild her. Like the re-educators did to him so long ago.

“Facing it isn’t the same as answering for it,” he growls. He’s close enough to see her eyelashes flutter with the sharp snap of her gaze.

“And who answers for your mistakes?”

He feels the warmth of her breath on his lower lip. The cloud of air passes between them, warm beads of moisture in the thinness of the cold, and drives right down to his belly. 

There’s a weighted silence.

Then, Varric opens his mouth.

“Uh, do you two need some alone time?”

Zaahra steps back and the threat dissolves on her body. She becomes a disjointed picture of soft, pale lines and delicately curves horns once more. It takes Bull a few moments to collect himself off the edge of bracing for combat to turn and glare at the dwarf.

“Because if you’re going to duke it out, the three of us can wait back over there,” Varric gestures his thumb back over his shoulder. “Y’know, from a safe distance.”  
Solas smirks a little, but declines to say anything. Cassandra on the other hand looks royally pissed. She marches forward and comes between the two of them, jaw set.

“Whatever your differences were before, they mean nothing now,” she says, volleying her gaze between them, “Infighting will get us nowhere. We must work together to close the Breach.”

Zaahra glares at him over the Seeker’s head. But there’s no longer a threat in her pale eyes. They both know Cassandra is right. And hard as he wants to hold onto his convictions, he knows there’s a bigger picture. If he really wants to distinguish himself as above the unchecked tempers of the Tal-Vashoth, he’ll leave the argument alone.

Cassandra strides forward between their two bodies. Solas follows after her, with Varric close at hand. As the dwarf crosses between the archway of them, he smirks.

“You two can beat each other up after we deal with the hole in the sky.”

Bull sighs, and after a moment follows the rest of the party. Zaahra’s eyes tear caverns into him him until he turns his back to her. Then, the sensation leaves, and he focuses on the task at hand.

That is the fundamental difference between he and Zaahra. 

He is order, he is control. He is rational enough to see the bigger picture.

She trails as quick burning fire and black smoke behind him. But he will cool himself with purpose. Find solace in the Qun.

He will not allow her to make him weak.


	4. Chapter 4

The music in the tavern is loud and off key. Just the way he likes it. The drinks are flowing, the people are laughing and the snowy pathways of Haven are filled with quick, dancing footsteps. He knows there are some that will sit inside the Chantry and snarl at the celebrations. There are always a handful in any given group that will fall on their own swords before admitting silver linings exist. Cullen is probably at the top of the heap, if Bull had to guess.

It doesn’t matter. The people of Haven are happy for the first time in a long time. As they should be. The Breach is closed and the sky is nothing but silver and navy. The all-consuming scar of green has faded. Everyone can breathe a little easier knowing it isn’t shining down on them, slipping under the cracks in their doors, waking them like a cruel god. 

Tonight is a night for the victors. And The Iron Bull plans to spend it as such.

“I heard you were there when the Herald defeated the Magister.”

He’s sitting with the Chargers by the fire with a mug balanced on one knee and a serving girl on the other. She blinks up at him with big round eyes, the tops of her big, round tits threatening to burst from her dress. He palms her hip with one hand but shifts his eyes to the fire. 

“Mmm.”

She shifts on his knee, “What was it like? Were you scared?”

Not at the time, he thinks. It’s what has transpired since then that scares him. The story Zaahra wove for them all. The future that might have come to pass had Alexius succeeded. As if time manipulation wasn’t bad enough -the world had been fractured, ripped open. And the idea that red lyrium had been growing out of him like a disease is a little more than unsettling. 

But it’s not just that. It’s the way Zaahra looks in the aftermath. Worn, shaken. There’s no disputing that she and the pretty boy Vint went through hell and back in that future. When she came out of it, her face had been drawn. The air of bravado had dissipated, and the predatory flicker of her eyes glassy and undone. Alexius had fallen to his knees before her anyway. 

A victory -but at what cost?

He remembers her voice among the trees as they trekked their way back to Haven. 

/“I watched you sacrifice yourself for me.”/

It’s a no-brainer for him, and he’s not surprised to hear that he did so. If the world had been ripped apart and he had a chance to keep it from ever happening? Damn right he’d throw himself into the fire. But it’s the way that it seems to haunt Zaahra that disarms him. He knows it's not easy to watch people die for you. Especially if you’re unaccustomed to it. She doesn't seem to be taking it well.

The Herald untangled that future from ever happening. But it was real for her, and the effects are lasting. 

He hasn’t seen even a flicker of her tonight. Perhaps she’s one of the ones off sulking about how the celebrations should wait until they’ve figured out what the fuck this Elder One wants. But she doesn’t seem the type. He forces himself to wipe her from his mind. It’s not his problem if she doesn’t want to join in on the celebrations she helped cultivate. 

“The Iron Bull isn’t afraid of anything!” Rocky proudly boasts in answer to the question, mustache twitching as his lips grin over his mug. 

“Except demons,” Skinner mutters over her own. Grim sits beside her without expression. Or at least, without expression to the untrained eye. He’s been a Charger long enough for Bull to see the smirk in his emotionless little eyes. The two of them are always fucking trouble together. 

Bull growls without any real conviction, “Hey, watch it.” 

But it’s true, and he’ll be the first to admit it. He doesn’t like demons. He doesn’t like the Fade. He doesn’t like magic. And if he’s being honest, he hates the idea of a bunch of mages running wild around Haven too. That decision is going to bite the Herald in the ass before long. And it’s just a matter of time before they’ve got more demons running around here than they know what to do with. 

He shudders at the thought. Demons are bad fucking news regardless. But he’s always been a touch more sensitive about the subject. Guy like him can’t afford to be worn as a meat suit for some spirit. The kind of damage that could cause is well beyond his ability or desire to imagine. 

“Well I would have been very scared,” the serving girl coos and kisses under his jaw, “I think you were quite brave.”

He murmurs a laugh and tries to lose himself in the sensation of her mouth. It’s harder than it should be tonight. He should be two drinks in, and he’s only half a mug deep. He should be carrying this girl back to his tent and making her squeal. He should be happy. But he is uneasy. Feels like he needs to keep an eye on his boys tonight. Feels like there’s a rock in his stomach. 

He’s good at playing to the crowd, however. Part of what makes him a good spy. The Qun isn’t very lax on indulgences. But no one trusts a guy who doesn’t take any luxuries for himself. The Iron Bull has crafted a persona over the years that has attracted loyal people to him and made them stay. Even when he doesn’t quite feel like playing the roles he’s been given, he can. So he chuckles a little and jostles the woman at his side playfully. 

“Mostly I just stood there until it was over,” he says and then forces himself to take another swig of ale. 

“You didn’t tell her about the time rifts, Chief,” Krem reminds him with a smile. 

“The what?!” the girl gasps, mostly for effect, but the effort is appreciated. 

“The rifts this magister asshole was opening had these little pockets of magic that sped up and slowed down time,” Bull tries to explain, “Gives me a headache just thinking about it.” 

“How frightening!” she dips a finger in the groove of his throat. 

“That is powerful magic at work,” Dalish quips. She gazes into her mug with the same kind of morose expression Bull is wearing on the inside. Dalish is usually pretty intuitive. He wonders if this is a good sign or a bad one that she’s not having much fun tonight either. 

Bull shrugs, “The Herald made pretty quick work of them still.”

The girl shifts closer to him. Their ribs graze each other’s and he adjusts his hands to support her waist. She breathes against his neck, her breath honey. 

“What’s she like?” she asks softly, “The Herald?”

“Tall!” Rocky sputters a laugh. Beside him, Stitches rolls his eyes. 

Bull frowns. There are words that come to mind immediately. Tal-Vashoth. Ruthless. Bloodthirsty. Killer. Deserter. 

But he remembers her, shaken and unfurled as Alexius’ vortex spit her out. And he remembers the way she looked when she tried to explain to all of them that they’d died for her. As if it was her awakening. Her gods rising out of the blood and sand to greet her unholy soul. 

“She’s…” he pauses, searching for something close, “…tough,” he finally settles on. It is a useless, colorless word and it doesn’t even begin to outline the sharp angles and depths of her. 

There's a pause. 

“I suppose she has to be,” the girl murmurs after a moment. 

The music in the tavern suddenly slows. Just enough for him to hear a scuffle outside. His body goes on alert. Every muscle in him tenses at the first toll of the bells. The Chargers react as an extension of him. Krem sets down his mug. Skinner withdraws a blade from the inside of her leg. They look to him for guidance as the second bell rings and the bard in the corner goes quiet. 

/What’s happening? 

Are we under attack? 

Someone find out!/

Krem’s face grows dark, “Chief?”

An Inquisition scout bursts through the door, breathless and red cheeked. “Iron Bull! Sir!”

He pats the serving girl gently and she lurches up from his lap. He comes to stand, deciding now isn’t the time to reprimand the kid for forgetting the article before his name, and sets his mug down on the table. When he’s at his full height, the squirrelly scout gulps and darts a look back to the door. 

“The Herald requests your assistance,” he pants out. 

“What’s going on out there?” Bull asks, aware that the Chargers have set down their mugs as well and stood up from the table.

“We’re under attack, sir.”

“By who?” Krem asks. 

The bells ring once more and the screams begin. The haze of drunken celebration sobers up in a gust of icy wind that blusters through the tavern. The Iron Bull doesn’t wait for an answer. He puts a hand on the serving girl’s shoulder. She’s gone three shades paler and her eyes are wide when she looks at him.

“Get somewhere safe,” he tells her. 

She nods and picks up her skirts, following the scout out the door. Bull hefts his axe from the back of his chair and onto his shoulders. Then he turns back to the Chargers. 

“Take care of the townspeople.”

“But Chief-“ Krem protests.

“I’ll meet up with you after. Go.” 

“Horns up!” Rocky says, but even his smile his fragile. Nervous.

“Horns up,” Bull agrees, and then he’s gone, plunging into the cold night. 

Up on the hill, the army advances. It’s big. Torch flame looks like a sea of stars against the white mountains. The townspeople are running every direction, he dodges a few in an effort to get up the steps. Cullen runs past him collecting soldiers. He’s too far away for Bull to flag him down, but close enough that he can hear his voice over the commotion. 

“Forces approaching! To arms!” 

Bull pushes agains the throes of panicked townspeople towards the Chantry. He’s halfway up the steps when Zaahra bursts forth from inside.

“Boss!” he calls out. 

Her head snaps towards him. Her eyes are like garnets in the moonlight. She unsheathes her daggers from her back and closes the distance between them. 

“We need to find the others and get to the gates,” she says and moves right past him. 

He follows after, matching her stride and keeping his eye on the force beyond the mountain. 

“Celebratory drinks are on hold then,” he mutters.

She doesn’t answer. He doesn’t expect her to. People rush past them in waves. Lots of panicked eyes, wet, shimmering cheeks. 

He can’t help but try and remind her, “Lot of people counting on us, Boss.”

“I know.” 

He’s never met a Tal-Vashoth who cared about more than themselves. But Zaahra has all of Haven to protect. There are good people here. Innocent people. They don’t deserve to be slaughtered. 

“We can’t let them die.”

“I know.” 

She snaps the last response. He hears the spark of flame in her voice, the hint of savagery and violence he’s come to expect from her. But now at least it’s directed. These people are hers now. If she has something to protect, something to fight for, all that brutality can be an advantage rather than an unfortunate habit. 

He just hopes she knows how to wield her fury when it counts for more than a few dusty coins.

“Good,” he says. 

The bells ring again. And all the music dies.


	5. Chapter 5

The search for the Herald takes a five pronged approach. Each group splits from the center of the mountain encampment, a fragile kind of shelter that will have to do for the time being, and sets out to comb the snowy expanse. The cold is bitter and unforgiving. Each gust of wind feels like knives against flesh. But no one complains. 

They have all seen the horror that razed Haven to the ground. Children will shudder and cry about the threat of dragon wings circling their nightmares. Their parents will choke on their own fear in the night too. Cling to the memories of those they have lost. But now is not the time for fear or mourning. For the moment, they are bestowed with purpose. 

They can find their strength for her. For the woman that stood against the demon. The one that buried Haven and herself as soon as they sent up the flare to alert her that they were safe. She is their only hope of defeating this Elder One. And now, she is a beacon of hope. 

A martyr. 

A drop of blood in twenty feet of fresh snow. 

Bull takes the Chargers with him. They split from the other groups a mile into the haze of the storm. There are a few trees that have withstood the avalanche, but not much else. Everything is white and ceaseless. It’s hard to believe there was ever a town here. Harder still to believe anyone could have survived something like this. 

But Zaahra survived the explosion at the Conclave. If anyone can come out of this alive, it’s her. 

None of the Chargers have spoken a word of complaint. He knows they’re tired. Miserable. Stitches is sporting a broken arm from the fighting earlier -wrapped himself up with a sheet for the time being- and Krem has a gash in his forehead that still might be bleeding if it wasn’t so damn cold. They’re all bundled up, heads down against the wind. Skinner has her red scarf drawn up over her nose and mouth. And even Grim beside her has the decency to look cold, despite an obvious lack of any other emotion. 

Bull is pretty cold himself. But he’s still pumping enough blood from the battle to keep him going. He’s been through worse than this. They all have. That one time they waited twenty hours in the freezing rain comes to mind. Not much worse, but a little. He thinks of bringing the story up to pick up their spirits but finds he can barely catch his breath in the cold. He trudges forward in silence, choosing to barrel through the snow with his thighs rather than pick his feet up. 

Half an hour passes. Then another. Krem’s teeth are starting to chatter behind him. Bull thinks about sending them back. He’ll hunt for her alone if he has to. His guys deserve a break. Warm beds. Someone to tend to their wounds. But they’re already so far out it doesn’t make any sense for any to turn back now. Still, no one complains. No one falters. 

“Dalish, you’ve got any spells that can light the way a little?” he calls back against the wind.

The elf looks up, incredulous, “I’m not a mage!” 

He groans, but turns back around anyway. Light wouldn’t help much as it is. Everything is washed out all around him. 

“Right, ‘course not.” 

“Andraste’s ass, she’s got a glowing green hand! How hard can she be to find?” Rocky sputters out. His mustache is frozen solid from the looks of it. 

Bull goes to reply when the blast of a horn echoes over the top of the hill. He holds up a hand and the Chargers stop behind him. He waits. Then, a second blast. 

“Commander Cullen’s group,” Krem says, jutting his chin towards the source of the noise. 

It makes sense. The sound definitely came from their left, and when they’d all split up, Cullen and Cassandra plus a few scouts had taken the path beside them. Bull sets his shoulders and changes direction. 

“Come on,” he says.

The climb up the last hill is the hardest he can remember working in years. Fighting is one thing, and he’s got good endurance for that and then some. But an hour in these temperatures climbing through snow as high as his waist has clearly taken a toll. He can only imagine how Zaahra’s fairing. Or -maybe he doesn’t want to. 

The first Inquisition scout he sees turns at the sight of them. Bull analyzes her expression as best he can in the light. Grim. Pressed. Unsettled. But not completely unraveled. Zaahra is still alive then. He pushes past her, uninterested what the rest of her body language might tell him. He needs to see for himself. 

Cullen’s bright hair is like a signal fire against the snow. He and Cassandra stand side by side, but he turns when Bull approaches. The space between their bodies opens up and reveals the Herald. 

She’s on her knees in the snow. Body hunched, one arm wound around her side. It takes him a moment longer than it should to realize she’s crying. Her teeth are clenched, eyes squeezed shut. Tears slide down her cheeks. Her body trembles near violently, as if even her pain is savage. 

No one goes to her. No one is exactly sure how. Up until now, Zaahra has been indomitable. Smoke and storm in one body. Untouchable. But he supposes everything is different now. This attack was personal. The Inquisition has been hit in their home. And their home is with this woman. Who, for all her brutality and fire, crumbles under the final culmination of it all. 

And for a moment, she is no longer Tal-Vashoth. Not a Herald, not a bandit, not a savage. 

She’s just a girl. 

Scared out of her fucking mind. 

“We must get her to shelter,” Cassandra murmurs under her breath to the others. 

Stitches steps from the line of the Chargers, “She’s in a lot of pain. She needs healers.” 

Cullen and Cassandra exchange a glance. Bull can see them going through the possible solutions and plans of action within their own heads. He doesn’t have the patience to wait around for them to deliberate. He marches forward and stoops to the ground beside Zaahra. Her ribs are probably broken, the way she’s holding them. He’s mindful of that when he picks her up and shifts her into his arms. 

She feels very small and cold in his grip. Not like the maelstrom of movement he’s seen her be on the battlefield. As soon as he lifts her from the ground she falls limp against him. Doesn’t even have the strength to put her arms up around his neck. He sees the whites of her eyes before her head falls against his chest. Her face is sallow and clear, save for twin dark trails of blood from her nose that have frozen across her upper lip. The white vitaar has been beaten away. One of her piercings has ripped clean of her ear. 

But with her eyes closed and her face still, she looks almost peaceful. 

“Hold on, Boss, I’ve got you.” 

It doesn’t matter who she was before. Tal-Vashoth or no, she is a symbol now. She is the very embodiment of an ideal he set out to protect when the Inquisition formed. She is bigger than the Qun. And the enemy they face is greater than the Tal-Vashoth. 

If he’s going to help save the world, he’s going to have to get used to that. 

“Let’s go,” he says and strides through the snow covered, windblown search parties. Zaahra swings in his grip. Her hand dangles, green light flickering against the sprawling white mountains. 

When they return to the survivors of Haven, a hush falls over the encampment. Then Cassandra raises her hand. Cheeks bitten scarlet by the cold. Lips blue, but voice without tremor.

“The Herald lives!”

And the cheer that goes up in response carves new purpose in his bones.


	6. Chapter 6

It’s shitty. The whole thing is shitty. 

No one even knows how many people they’ve lost. The advisors are too busy arguing to take a head count, and everyone else is too tired, too cold, too stripped of the rallying cry that brought them together. Now that things are quiet, the weight of their loss settles upon them. The Iron Bull sees a lot of hopeless expressions around the makeshift camp. A lot of soldiers who have lost their friends. A lot of children who have lost their parents. 

Zaahra is still unconscious. The lean-to the soldiers have constructed over her is keeping some of the wind off of her, but real shelter would do better. They have to work with what they have, unfortunately. Stitches is there offering his advice, but Mother Giselle has kept everyone who isn’t a healer away.

She needs rest, the woman beats back the sea of hungry eyes with. 

She needs a lot more than that, he thinks. 

He’s sitting around a fire with a few soldiers, Varric and Dorian. Never thought he’d be sharing a fire with a Vint but he supposes this one isn’t so bad. Too pretty to trust, but he did help them bring down Alexius. And fought side by side with the Herald through the burning, melted streets of Haven. 

“She’s been unconscious a very long time,” the mage murmurs, black rimmed eyes glancing darkly into the fire. 

Pretty, but evidently not an optimist. 

Varric waves a hand dismissively, “Goldie will pull through.”

But the dwarf's face creases in worry as soon as the words leave his lips. Varric is pretty damn good at putting on a show but Bull has been trained to know when a man is wracked by fear, even if he doesn’t want you to know it. When Zaahra woke in the camp for a moment, she murmured a name that struck a dark chord in the Varric. 

Corypheus. 

He hasn’t been the same since. 

“She has to, right? Or…or else that thing wins,” a soldier to his left mutters. He’s just a kid with ruddy cheeks and snot dripping from his nose.

Dorian’s brow crumples, “I’ve seen the kind of future his winning precipitates. It’s not pretty.” 

“It’s not going to happen,” Bull says. 

Another young soldier braces rubs his hands together, “But what if she doesn’t wake up? What if he comes back, what if -“ 

“It’s not going to happen,” Bull says, spitting each word with force through clenched teeth. The soldier backs off, folding his hands in his lap and staring back into the fire like a wounded puppy. Bull sighs, rubs his face in his hands. Varric clears his throat, attempts some damage control.

“She’ll pull through.” 

Bull plants his hands on his knees and stands. He mumbles something about checking on his guys, but really he just needs to take a walk. Clear his thoughts. Remember why he’s here. He lumbers through the camp, watching the sea of dark faces ebb and flow around him. He takes note of each member of the Inquisition while he walks. 

Blackwell is polishing his sword. Gives him something to do. He’s a man that likes to work with his hands, doesn’t know who he is when he can’t. Bull can relate to that. Sera is sitting in the shadows, wringing her shirt in her hands. She doesn’t notice him when he passes. Cole is missing. Solas is brooding. Vivienne is impeccable and enchanting fires for the refugees. 

He finds the Chargers around their own fire. They all look up when he arrives, faces bathed in orange. Someone patched up Krem’s head for him. Doesn’t look like Stitches’ work. Their medic is still missing from the group -probably still farther up the camp with Zaahra. Bull doesn’t know if that’s a good sign or bad. 

“Chief,” Krem starts to stand, “You should sit down.” 

Bull puts a hand on his shoulder to prevent him from getting up. “No, sit. I just came to check in. Everyone all right?”

“We’re good,” Krem says. 

“Any word from Stitches?”

“With the Herald,” Skinner confirms, not looking up from cleaning her fingernails with her blade. 

Bull’s about to say something more when music piques his attention. 

No, not music, singing. 

“The fuck is that?” Rocky picks up his head. 

Bull follows the sound. It gets louder the closer he gets to the main tents. Everyone is singing. Every child, every soldier, every Chantry sister. Krem scrambles to his side, looking as bewildered as him. The crowd is the thickest upwards of their fire. Bull pushes through the throngs of people gently. It’s not hard to move through a crowd when you’re his size. People fall away and create a path for both him. Krem falls behind eventually and Bull marches on alone until he comes to the edge of the crowd.

And at the center, Zaahra. 

She stands, pale and glistening in the snow. Her fists clench and unclench at her sides as she looks around at the chorus being sung for her. About her. The gold piercings still left in her face look like sunlight. Her hair is snow. She is bandaged and pale but her eyes are alive with color. He supposes it’s hard not to be a little inspired when a few hundred people are joined like this for one purpose. He wonders if she feels it too. That pressure, right in the center of your chest. The one that flexes and grows, whispers all kinds of hope to you. 

Her gaze finds his through the crowd. Not hard to do, considering they stand a good two heads taller than everyone else here. He expects her to be embarrassed, considering how they found her. How he last saw her. But she holds his gaze, strong and unwavering. The song fades out and she still doesn’t look away. He’s not sure if he’s the anchor for her, or if she is for him. 

Regardless, he loses her as the crowd disperses. He catches the wink of Solas’ staff and her gold tipped horns making their way to the outskirts of the camp. He follows and waits patiently once he finds them talking by a torch full of magelight. They talk for a few minutes. Something serious, no doubt. With Solas, it’s always serious. 

But the conversation is quick, and the elf takes his leave of her. Zaahra continues to stand at the crest of the hill. Bull passes Solas on his way forward and gives him a nod. Then he comes up behind Zaahra and sighs. 

“How’s it going, boss?”

She doesn’t acknowledge him at first. The wind blows the tail end of her braid across her side. She stretches her hand out before her and flexes it. Her fingers clench in on the green that crackles brighter and hotter than the magelight.

“I was born Tal-Vashoth. Maybe that means I was born a beast, a monster.”

“Look -“ he starts to say. 

She cuts him off, “I was born into a world that will kill you if you are not the strongest, or the fastest. A world that will kill you if you are unwilling to sacrifice your morals for your life.”

She closes her palm completely and lets it hang to her side. Then she turns her face to him. The magelight washes her profile blue. 

“I don’t want the world to grow up like I did,” she whispers and then laughs, “All this time, I thought our way was right. But…if he succeeds, if Corypheus rules, that will be everyone’s new reality. Lawless, bloody…a survival at all costs kind of world.”

“You’re probably right,” Bull agrees softly. 

“And that terrifies me.” 

He doesn’t know what to say to that. He stares past her and into the mountains instead. Mountains that unleashed her from their jaws just hours before. 

“I don’t believe in the Qun. But I don’t believe in Tal-Vashoth either,” she says after a long silence, “I don’t know what I believe in.” 

Bull looks back at her and then glances to the camp. 

“Believe in the Inquisition. You’ve got good people, and after all this, they’ll follow you through anything.” 

“And what about you?” 

The question is abrupt. It surprises him, and he finds her eyes on him when he looks back. He knows the weight of her reasons for asking and lets them hang heavy in the air between for a moment them before answering. 

“Me included,” he says, “Look, we have our differences, I’ll be the first to admit it. But this is bigger than you and me, and you’re going to need everyone on your side to take this Corypheus guy down.”

He smiles a little. Unfolds his arms.

“I think we can hold off on cutting each other’s heads off until after he’s dealt with.”

Zaahra smiles. Actually smiles. Every muscle in her relaxes into a state of softness as she looks back into the magelight. He takes a risk and places his hand on her shoulder. She feels stronger than she did in his arms. Warm, indomitable, enduring. 

“The Chargers and I are with you, boss.” 

“Thanks, Bull.”

He squeezes her shoulder. Feels the hard bone, the warm muscle. 

“You should get some rest,” she says with a sigh, “We’re leaving in the morning.”

He raises his eyebrows, “To go where?”

Her eyes flash.

“Skyhold.”


	7. Chapter 7

It’s getting harder to write his reports. The Iron Bull pours over the letter, written in dark, thick ink and tries to determine how to not make it sound like he’s struggling. Ben-Hassrath by definition, pretty much know when you’re bullshitting. 

They’re not going to like the idea of a Tal-Vashoth Inquisitor. A week ago, he would have been with them. But it’s almost impossible to convey inside a short letter how she looked standing atop that mountain, wind blowing back her hair and purpose lining her bones like steel. It’s impossible to describe the look in her eyes. The way she stood on the steps above the entire Inquisition, sword gripped firmly in her hand, and let the sun rain over her like gold. 

The letter reads thus far: The Herald has become the Inquisitor. 

She’s magnificent, he almost writes. 

Erases it. 

She’s pretty good for a Tal-Vashoth.

Erases it. 

This actually isn’t as bad as it sounds. 

Erases it. 

“For fucks sake.” 

He crumples the note in his fist. He slams his hands on the table and stands from his chair. Vows halfheartedly to finish it later. Maybe he needs a drink. Alcohol might help him tie together more convincing sentences, so he makes his way to Skyhold’s tavern. It’s an upgrade from Haven’s. Warmer, bigger, better drinks, better atmosphere. It lacks the kind of cold “end-of-the-world” feel that made Haven unwelcoming. The tavern in Skyhold has been full to the walls every night they’ve been here. Even on the first night people flocked towards the warm lights and old dusty chairs. A bard flounced in, made herself comfortable. 

Slowly the chairs were washed down, the bar got a tender, the empty tables filled with drinks, and the conversations became less concerned with loss and more focused on the future. 

It’s the Charger’s favorite place to be these days. And he knows he’ll find them there, with their table wedged way in the back. Rocky will be pouring over his recipes with a quill and dripping beer onto the pages from his mustache. Skinner will be intimidating some poor scouts, shoulder to shoulder with Grim. Dalish will probably be making a mess, Stitches cleaning up said mess and Krem will be sitting with a bottle all but glued to his lips, overseeing them all until Bull makes an appearance. 

Krem is usually good to save him a tankard before the bar runs dry for the night. The Iron Bull can practically taste it running over his tongue. Slightly warm. Sharp as a blade. Guaranteed to put him in a better mood. 

He just rounds the stone steps with Zaahra appears in the distance. It’s dark as ink outside, but she’s not hard to spot. Gold horns glinting even in the moonlight, gait strong and proud. Which is impressive, considering how many ribs she cracked during her escape from Haven. It’s been a week and no one would ever know she came that close to death. She walks with the same kind of grace and prowess that a woman with no scars to speak of can boast. 

He’s been meaning to talk to her for a few days. Since being named the Inquisitor, Zaarha has understandably been a little busy. Trouble with the Grey Wardens, a fucking castle to attend to, hundreds of still injured, still mourning refugees. But she looks aimless right now. Tilting her head up to look at the stars, sweeping a few white tendrils of hair from her forehead. 

Bull approaches from the left. She turns and her eyes pass over his face. She doesn’t smile, but her expression is calm. Muted. 

“Hey boss, you got a second?” 

“Of course, what do you need?”

“I just want to show you something.” 

She follows him without any further questions. Maybe she’s just used to following other people at this point when they ask something of her. They walk to the tents in silence. The murmured sounds of the troops deeper within the camp make a hum in the air. He ducks inside his own tent when they reach it. A moment later, he comes back out holding an oversized mercenary coat with a hood. He tosses it at Zaahra who catches it without blinking. 

“Put this on,” he says.

Her eyes narrow, “Why?”

“It’ll make sense in a minute,” he promises.

Zaahra looks at him strangely for another beat and then resolves herself to the idea. She throws her shirt over her head in one fluid motion. Bull gazes freely at the lines of muscle in her abdomen and the tops of her breasts, held up by a leather band. Then the old, worn cloth falls over her, shapeless and concealing. She draws the hood over her horns and the tented cloth drips shadows down her face. 

It’s not great, but it’ll have to do. There aren’t many qunari women walking around Skyhold of course, but most of these soldiers have never seen the Inquisitor up close. It’s a stretch, but he’s pretty sure it’ll work. 

“All right, come on,” he gestures with a hand and she follows, lips ever so slightly curled in the corners. 

They venture farther into the camp, where soldier’s tents sprawl near endlessly to the borders of Skyhold. The closer the get to the center of the camp, the louder everything gets. Music, laughter, swords clashing in the moonlight. It’s enough to make anyone’s heart swell. 

Bull has the luxury of knowing every soldier under his command. He knows how Krem gets his armor to shine just right, he knows how Skinner likes her ale, he knows the kind of wax Rocky uses to curl his damn mustache. But Zaahra can’t possibly know all of her soldiers like that. There are too many, and more are signing up every day. 

He wants to give her a taste of what she’s signed up for. If her goal is to believe in the Inquisition, she has to know that these are people. Not just statistics, and definitely not just cannon fodder to hurl at Corypheus. And he kind of needs to see it too. He vowed to put Tal-Vashoth and the Qun as far behind him as possible (while still maintaining reports, of course). And if he’s going to see that through, he needs to get an idea of what they’re building their foundation upon too. 

After all, he hates going into battle without knowing who has his back. 

On the outskirts of the camp, they find a vet Mira and a farm boy named Tanner drinking and playing cards. He couldn’t have picked a better first two. The dichotomy of the war weary veteran and the young eager upstart is enough to put things into perspective almost immediately. 

Zaahra, for her part, plays the part he assigns her well. He gives her Grim’s personality and name because he’s the easiest one to model. She doesn’t say much, just listens as the two talk. They talk about why they joined up. Where they're from. Why they've stayed. The shadows over Zaahra's face make it hard for him to see how she’s taking it, but when they set down their drinks and move on, she’s smiling. 

“You up for a few more?” he asks. 

She nods, and takes the lead. They make their way to the loudest part of the camp and happen upon a group of young soldiers yelling and laughing. Bull realizes they’re rushing each other with wooden shields. It’s not so much a training exercise as it is a good way to blow off steam. He's used the same kind of tactic with the Chargers before. Just a little something to get the blood pumping.

He's so amused by the display that he and Zaahra almost walk right into the middle of the ring. 

The soldier on defense flies back as the other slams his full weight against him. Zaahra barely dodges the guy before he stumbles a few steps and whips his head back, grinning. 

“Sorry!” he says before she rights him and he goes charging into the circle again against his opponent. 

Bull can’t help but laugh. Not like they don’t get beat up enough by the Venatori. But soldiers will be soldiers, and most of them understand that releasing tension like this can be kind of cathartic. In a world where nothing makes sense, they find comfort in their blades, in their shields, in the loud laughter of staged combat. 

He and Zaahra watch with varying shades of amusement as the soldiers go at each other again and again. They’re both huffing and sweating buckets by the time the final charge is given. The younger of the two picks up his feet and rushes the other. Their shields meet in a cacophony of splitting wood. Splinters from a crack down the middle fly out from the center of their collision. One man goes flying on his back, the other lifts his fists in victory. 

The crowd of soldiers, scouts and even some mages roars with a thunderous cheer. The two soldiers slap each other on the back and shake hands. The winner holds up his shield and exclaims, “Who’s next?!”

Zaahra’s eyes slide over to Bull. It’s almost like she knows what he’s about to do before he does. Never one to disappoint, he strides forward out of the circle and grins, spreading open his palms.

“How about me?”

The soldier visibly gulps but throws on a smile for good show. Someone hands Bull a shield and he thumps his fist on it. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.”

Someone thumbs the pommel of a blade on a steel barrel to signal the start of the match. He spins once until his back is to Zaahra, but feels her eyes all the same. The soldier in front of him looks crazed with fear and yet eager for them to come to blows all the same. This is something the Iron Bull understands deeply. 

He understands fear as well as the next man. But it’s easier to bludgeon it into submission. Split lips and bruised ribs make these men feel powerful. Pain allows them to direct their fear. 

The soldier rushes him. Bull stands and waits, raising his shield arm in preparation. As he suspects, the soldier feints to his left on his blind side. Bull knows it’s coming. Near everyone trained in military combat knows to look for obvious weaknesses. But that’s the difference between the mercenary and the solider. The mercenary knows the most obvious weakness is most always the one that is being used as bait. 

Bull cuts right instead and then heaves his shoulder into the soldier’s shield. The man drops like a sack of flour. The loud cries of sympathy and awe burst through the circle. Face down in the dirt, his opponent doesn’t move for a moment. Bull leans down and puts a hand on his shoulder. 

“You all right?” he asks over the noise.

The man rolls over onto his back. The grin on his face is smudged with dirt and blood, but his teeth gleam through white. 

“Better than all right, ser!” he yells.

Bull laughs and takes his hand, heaving him up from the ground, “Good man.” 

He’s about to hand off his shield when someone from the sidelines calls out, “You’ve got a challenger!”

He turns, surprised that anyone is willing to take that kind of beating for themselves. He shouldn’t be surprised when he turns around to find Zaahra waiting for him. Her face is hidden by the shadows from her hood, save for the gleam of gold on her upper and lower lip that curl in a smile. She fixes a shield on her arm and plants her feet. Her hips sway under the mercenary coat, and even through all the layers he can sense the kind of carnal brutality that exists in her muscles.

She knows how to command every part of herself. Every move she makes is deliberate, and now almost taunting. She teases him with the pattern of her toes in the dirt. Challenges his strength with the side roll of her hips. 

Bull grabs a hold of his shield once more and grins at her across the expanse of dirt. The audience they’ve accumulated is going mad with encouragement. Some for him, others for her. He wants to say something before they start, may the best qunari win or some barbed jab of the sort, but she starts running for him without warning. 

He hardens his body into stone. He’s seen her fight before, and he has some idea of the kind of fluidity he might be facing. If he didn’t know her, he’d expect her to rush him head on. Most Tal-Vashoth plunge into combat and rely on force over technique. But she is uniquely different in this respect. Her body is a honed, sharpened weapon. She will go low first. Try to get his feet out from under him. He has size on her, but certainly not grace.

So when she closes in on him, he stoops to protect his knees at the last second. But instead of dropping, Zaahra jumps. She gets high enough to plant a foot on the top edge of his shield and flips herself over his shoulders. He’s so bewildered that it takes him a second to right himself and turn around to anticipate her next attack. But she’s not there. 

He realizes his mistake a half a second too late. His knees go out and he drops to the ground on his back. Zaahra descends upon him, slamming her shield into his as her body settles across him like a wave that crashes and then flattens against the shore. Her knees press against his hips in the dirt and she looks down at him. Her damn hood doesn’t even look an inch out of place. The only indication she’s worked at all is the slightly labored breath he feels darting out at his chin. 

She grins over him, white teeth and gold metal, and he catches himself wondering f she brings this same kind of dirty fighting to the bedroom. 

“Just don’t tell the Chargers,” he says good-naturedly as she picks him up amidst the crowd of hollering soldiers, “They’ll never let me live it down.”

Zaahra laughs a sweet, rough sound. He finds he likes it. Wants to hear more of it. 

They return their shields to the next soldiers in line, opting out for the various challenges that spark up after their display. Then they resume their walk. The rest of the outing is done in silence, merely taking in the other groups as they appear. A group of battle-worn women sharpening their blades around a fire like Chantry sisters doing their needlework. A few mages practicing with swords by a line of straw dummies. A veteran and his young son talking with their heads almost touching by the hill. 

When they’ve seen all Bull thinks they can see, he comes to a stop by an empty row of tents. 

“I know every soldier under my command. You don’t have that option…but a few faces might help,” he says and turns to face her. 

Zaahra pulls the hood from her head and lets it fall gracelessly to her shoulders. 

“It was good to see them like that,” she says and then looks past him, “When they’re not worried about the Inquisitor watching them.”

Bull nods, “No one ever said it was easy being an idea. And that’s all you are to most of them. It’s why you can stand right in front of them without being recognized.” 

She looks pensive at that notion. Troubled. It’s hard to know what she’s thinking most of the time. Which for him, is strange. He’s not used to people being unreadable. That’s his job, his purpose. Something the Qun has crafted him to do. Zaahra opposes everything he’s ever been taught so effortlessly it’s almost more fascinating than maddening.

“You’ve got a good army coming along. Remember that, no matter what comes next. These are the people you can believe in, and they’ll believe in you,” he nods. 

Her smile is tight all of a sudden, but not unkind. Her eyes lift to his face and he senses weight in what she's about to say.

She licks her bottom lip, “It’s interesting to me how you act like the Tal-Vashoth don’t care about those under their command.” 

If he had hackles, they might rise at the question. Bull settles on merely tightening his jaw. 

“Most Tal-Vashoth I know don’t even have a chain of command. And I have a lot of good, hard evidence in my time that says they don’t give a fuck about one another even if they do.”

Zaahra smiles a little sadly. Her eyes grow distant, and the wind sweeps back the frayed pieces of hair escaping from her braid. Her half-lidded eyes make him think about her knees tight around his hips and her figure lowered across him, chest to chest, bodies so close he could taste the fight on her mouth. 

“When I was eighteen, we had a small girl join us. The Valo-Kas had no idea where she came from, but we welcomed her without hesitation. She was better with a bow than anyone I've ever seen,” she says, folding her arms over her chest. Her eyes lower, “She died on a raid a few weeks after signing on. Some sellsword got the jump on her and opened her throat before I could get to her.”

Bull’s opposition dies in his throat. He unfolds his own arms and watches the memory darken her face. Even with the glow of the moonlight across her skin, her expression seems to collect shadows.

“I wept for her. I barely knew her. We gave her a funeral of sorts, buried her. My friend, Kaariss, he wrote a poem and read it to all of us around her unmarked grave.” 

Bull is at a loss for words for the first time he can remember in a long while. The silence that endures after she speaks is thick and heavy. His lips press together as he tries to process the story. He pictures Zaahra with her white vitaar and her blood spattered armor, weeping over a little girl’s grave. As she wept atop the mountain for Haven. A cold shiver of understanding unfurls throughout his body.

Zaahra places a hand on his shoulder as she moves past him, “Thank you for tonight, Bull.”

Dumbfounded, he lets her go. Doesn’t even turn around to watch her fade into the shadows. 

“Any time, boss.”


	8. Chapter 8

Crestwood is dry. Well - damp might be a better term. His boots keep sinking ankle deep in mud and every step makes a pop of suction. Camp is just over the hill, however, and knowing their work here is done is enough to motivate the party over the last expanse of slick, rain saturated earth. 

It’s been a hell of a day. Found Hawke’s Grey Warden friend in a cave, drained the water out of the village, closed one of the biggest rifts he’s seen since the Breach. The few hours of sun Crestwood managed to salvage have long since passed and they arrive at the camp deep in the hollow belly of midnight. 

There is a fire already lit. Cassandra and Dorian who’ve been waiting on reserve are seated close to it, their faces flickering orange. The presence of the sun makes Crestwood like a desert during the day, but at night the consistency of the air is the same as it had been when the rift had brought clouds and rain and misery down across the village. This kind of chill is bone deep. Bull sheds his weapons and the strap of his armor and joins the other two by the flames.

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra stands as Zaahra makes her way to the heat as well. 

“You’re bleeding, did you know that?” Dorian pipes up. 

Bull looks back. It’s been so dark since the sun went down that he didn’t realize Zaahra was injured. Sera had taken a few good hits at the rift but they’d patched her up there. Varric had even wrapped a bit of bandage around a gash that he couldn’t remember receiving on his arm. But as he looks back, he sees Dorian is correct. The cloth of her Antaam-saar bares her abdomen and the thick, sculpted branches of her arms. Both have sustained injuries. A wound in her side drips dark blood down to the blue string that weaves her belt and three distinct scrape marks in her shoulder glisten wet and red. 

Zaahra is usually covered in so much blood in the aftermath of a battle that it’s impossible to see which is hers and which is her enemy’s. But now it’s fairly obvious. And the first thing that comes to his mind pops out of his mouth without hesitation.

“That’s going to scar, boss.” 

Her eyes find him in the light and her expression is curious. Honestly, he’s not really sure why he said it either. It was more of a realization than anything. It strikes him how mundane this rite of passage is. There was no special battle. No sacrifice. No impossible odds. They’d been closing a rift and now Zaahra is less of a Tanner and more of a Mira. Just like that. 

He smiles a little proudly. 

“Why didn’t you tell us before we left?” Varric appears from behind her, concern marking his tone. 

Zaahra inspects the wound on her shoulder, “I honestly didn’t know I was hurt.”

Varric chuckles while shedding Bianca from his back, “Can’t say I’m surprised, the way you fight, Goldie.”

Sera is the last to join them. Her arms are bandaged up but she’s as quick as normal, bursting through the group with her bow still in her hand. She strikes out and kicks the air, demonstrating the fight. 

“Yeah! Should’a seen it, blowin’ right through ‘em, all slice slice and crash crash and blood spewin’ everywhere and demons runnin’ back to their hole! Great stuff, that is.” Her body prances and spins before she lands squarely next to Cassandra on an overturned log. The Seeker narrows her eyes. 

“One of the healers will see to you,” she says, “We can not run the risk of you receiving an infection.”

“Yeah, that’d be quite the anticlimactic ending. Inquisitor Adaar faces down crazed darkspawn and fade rifts, only to be taken out by a blood infection,” Varric laughs before coming to sit by Dorian. 

Dorian smirks, “I don’t know, I’d read it.”

Bull flexes his hands near the flames. Warmth radiates through him like good alcohol. What he wouldn’t do to be sitting in the tavern right now rather then out here freezing his ass off in muddy, creepy, spirit-infested Crestwood. But they did good work today. That’s not far from his mind. And they’re one step closer to figuring out what the shit’s going on with the Grey Wardens. 

Not a bad day, overall. 

“I’ll have someone take a look,” Zaahra says, most likely to placate Cassandra. 

The Seeker stands and joins her, “I will accompany you. You can tell me of the day’s trials.” 

The two of them head further into camp where Bull knows there’s at least seven healers on hand. Silence hangs over the group, but it’s not entirely uncomfortable. They’re all too tired either from traveling or combat or a mix of both to give each other any useful conversation. Varric finishes taking his boots off and rubs at the arches of his feet.

“You hear the mayor fled Crestwood?” he asks Dorian.

The mage lifts his brow, “How scandalous -and utterly predictable.”

“It’s what big people do,” Sera snarls, “Step on all the little people ‘till it turns around and bites them in the arse.”

“The Inquisition will find him,” Bull mumbles, though his concentration is elsewhere, eyes trained on the shadows for a hint of Zaahra in the distance. Every time he sees a flicker of light he thinks it’s her gold tipped horns, or the stud in the cupid’s bow of her lips. 

“You sound very confident,” Dorian remarks.

“It’s kind of what we do.” 

“That, and battle the undead, evidently,” the mage sighs and lets a shudder run through him, “My nightmares will be stocked full for weeks after this place.”

He’s not wrong. Bull isn’t a huge fan of the walking corpses either. Demons are one thing, but putrid, stinking bones are another. Across from him, Sera makes a face into the flames.

“Just shite, all the drippy skin and creepy little eye sockets -eugh!” 

“At least we stopped the worst of it,” Varric sighs.

The four of them sit in tired silence for another few minutes. Bull knows he should be writing his report but his motivation is spent. It’s hard enough trying to stay awake to wait for food. 

Thankfully, his patience rewards him. When Zaahra and Cassandra return, they bring a kettle of stew between them. A few soldiers hurry behind them with a rack of ram meat. They stick the spokes into the ground by the fire and soon the smell of fat and muscle invades his nose. 

Zaahra sits by him and passes a bowl of stew his way. Her arm is bandaged and so is her side and she smells like the healing poultices the Inquisition keeps in high demand. Elfroot, sugar water, and now the smoke from the fire. He thanks her for the bowl and slurps it down hungrily. A bit rolls from the sides of his mouth and down his chin. When he’s drank the bowl dry, he puts it down and drags his forearm across the lower part of his face.

Varric is telling Sera and Dorian a story about Hawke. Something about her and a woman named Isabela getting caught naked on the floor of a tavern. He’d be more interested in it if he weren’t so acutely aware of how little Zaahra is eating. He’s not her keeper, and she’s proven that she can make her own decisions. But he turns his attention away from the story and nudges her knee with his own. 

“You should keep up your strength, boss.” 

She looks up from the fire as if she’s been broken out of a trance. Her eyes fall to the bowl of soup resting in her lap. 

“Right,” she says. 

“You good?”

She nods and picks up her spoon, “It doesn’t even hurt.”

“Wasn’t talking about your injuries.”

Zaahra sighs and puts the spoon down. The background of Varric’s story starts getting a few more expletives. 

“I know,” Zaahra ignores the noise, “I was just hoping you’d let me get away with it.”

“Not really my style, boss.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

She drums her fingers around the edge of her bowl. Rosy nails shine with crescent moons of their own. 

“Something bad is coming,” she says in a lower voice, “The Grey Wardens disappearing is an omen.” 

His eye narrows, “Never took you for the religious sort.”

“I’m not. But I know when I smell a fight. When there’s blood in the air.” 

“Now you’re starting to sound like Cassandra,” he teases, but only to try and lessen the edge of harshness that has developed across her mouth. When it doesn’t lift, he tries a different tactic, “Hard not to be superstitious when there’s demons pouring out of the sky, though.”

Zaahra nods. Lets her eyes fall. If you’d asked him a year ago if he ever thought he’d be trying to comfort a Tal-Vasoth he would have laughed in your face. But here he is, knocking his knee gently against hers once more. 

“You’ve got a good team with you,” he nods across the fire to others. Sera flips over backwards off the log after laughing at Varric’s punchline. Cassandra returns just in time to roll her eyes. Bull smiles fondly, “No one’s asking you to do this alone.”

Zaahra rubs her face in her hands, “I’ve just never been the hero before.” 

“Not too late to start.” 

“Isn’t it?”

She sets the bowl of stew down in the grass and then stands from her seat. He tilts his head up to look at her. Her eyes are anxious and dark. Zaahra slips into the shadows before he even gets another word in, and he’s left there listening to Sera’s laughter and the fire crackling as if they are echoes of battle. But he watches the outline of the Inquisitor as she makes her way to her tent. The gold on her horns is like pale sunlight. The rest of her bathed in a cloak as dark as her convictions.

All of a sudden, a figure jumps out in front of her. A scout to her left shouts to warn her, “Inquisitor!” 

Bull is on his feet before anyone else has even realized something is wrong. “Boss!”

The moonlight outlines the figure as another scout. But this one has a blade pointed at Zaahra. His other dagger is lodged firmly in her shoulder. 

“Venatori in the camp!” Cassandra bellows. 

A few more scouts turn their coats in the next breath. Bull grabs one by the shoulder and feels his collar bone crack beneath his palm. He slams the body into the ground and then rushes for Zaahra. Arrows fly past him. Sera’s, Varric’s, he can barely keep track. Dorian’s staff illuminates the small patch of battle. There aren’t many of them, but enough to be troubling. How they nicked these uniforms off Inquisition soldiers is a question for another time. 

Zaahra rips the dagger from her shoulder and kicks out in one movement. The scout buckles in half before she drives a knee up into his face. Bull is close enough to hear the crunch of bone and cartilage. She grabs the man by the neck and throws him down, planting the same knee into his chest. She presses his dagger against his throat. 

The rest of the spies fall and the camp grows quiet. No one seems to be hurt out of their guys. Varric steps forward and the others gather around. In the silence, Bull notices how hard Zaahra is breathing. She bares her teeth over the Venatori spy and snarls in his face. 

“What does Corypheus want with the Grey Wardens?!”

The man tries to get his other knife around toward her side. She reaches with her free hand and slams his back against the ground again and again until his fingers release the weapon. She digs her knee harder against him. Presses the blade until his throat begins to weep red. 

“Tell me!” 

The spy laughs coldly. He grins a red, bloody mouth before spitting in her face. With a cry of rage, Zaahra wrenches the knife across his neck. His throat opens. Red rushes out. 

Panting, Zaahra looks up. She meets Bull’s gaze with such ferocity that the warmth he’d received from the fire completely dissipates. 

“Inquisitor! Are you all right?” Cassandra calls out. 

Zaahra gets up and throws the dagger aside. She wipes her mouth and with her free hand, staunches the flow of blood from her shoulder. 

“Be ready to leave in an hour. We start for the Western Approach tonight,” she says. 

As she walks past Bull, he eyes the red blooming across her shoulder, slipping between her fingers. He doesn’t say anything, but all he can think when she’s gone is how much that's going to scar.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments are always appreciated!


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